


Icarus

by sleepsintheimpala



Series: Top Gun 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Gentle Dom Castiel, M/M, Self-Loathing, Sub Dean, Subdrop, Subspace, Top Gun AU, but minor character death with major consequences, definitely NO major character death, definitely NO rape/non-con, discussion of consent, discussion of safe-wording, healthy BDSM, mentions of various kinks in negotiations, safe-wording, short description of a panic attack, submissive kneeling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepsintheimpala/pseuds/sleepsintheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lieutenant Dean "Hunter" Winchester has the best one-night-stand of his life the evening before starting his rigorous training at the prestigious Top Gun. But the random hook-up soon becomes much more when "Emmanuel" not only turns out to be Dean's biggest rival for the coveted Top Gun trophy, but the two of them challenge each other's ideas of who they are and what it is they want out of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Semblance

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a joke on whatsapp back in October. I'll leave it up to you whether it should have stayed that way....
> 
> Note: I finally figured out where this story is going and have updated the Archive Warning accordingly. There has also been a minor edit in Chapter 1, 'cause Dick Roman is going to be used slightly differently than I initially had in mind.

                            

This. This is why he can’t have nice things.

A cold beer, a hot nurse to wake up next to, and a nicely mown, green lawn. That’s what normal people have. Not this bullshit.

Dean…Dean’s not normal, for many reasons, and he knows it. Hell, just having been born a Winchester makes him a freak. Hurtling through the sky in a metal tube at a velocity of 777 mph, that just takes it to a whole other level, though.

“Brother, you okay?”

Benny certainly isn’t fucking normal either and if there is any consolation to be had it lies in the fact they’re in this together, despite their initial misgivings about each other. His WSO seems to have no objections to sharing any and all claustrophobic spaces with him practically every minute of every day, which is just plain whackjob material, right there.

And Benny with his Cajun fucking care packages from home goes toxic on half a plate of Gumbo and fuck knows Dean has had to deal with that more times than he cares to count. And both of them have to deal with the bad Navy food, the close quarter sleeping, and the weird rash everyone gets at least once from the reject washing powder the Navy uses.

Dean loves Benny like a brother, in the Henry-The-Fifth-Saint-Crispin’s-Day-speech sense of the word. (Yes, he’s read Shakespeare, sue him. Also, Band of Brothers is badass) yet not a week passes that they don't argue over the most inane topics. Like who keeps throwing dirty socks under the bed getting them into trouble during inspections and who keeps mixing in the Men’s Health issues with Busty Asian Beauties.

So, seriously? Who the Hell signs up for that? Who the Hell becomes a fighter pilot?

Crazy people, that’s who.

“ _Enter Sandman_ 45 minutes straight. A new record, I think.” The static crackle of the radio does nothing to hide Benny’s amusement.

Dean doesn’t reply. Man flying at 36.000 ft, and Benny thinks he has full control over his nervous tics? Humming Metallica is a natural, human response. God, Dean’s so done with it, all of it. He’s done with the roll-calls, being called an idjit, and his stomach dancing in his throat with every launch. Dean’s out. He’s done. He’ll land the fucker right now and he’ll qui—

“ _Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown aircraft. Inbound, Mustang. You're vector zero-nine-zero for bogey_.”

Sammy.

And there’s reason Dean is up here having a mental freak-out in the first place. One simple but oh so complex word, because shit. Sammy’s up here, too. Sammy’s up here with fucking Christian Campbell for a driver, with incoming enemy aircraft. That familiar feeling of a switch being flipped pops in his head. All his bullshit fades away and Dean’s quietly focused, analyzing at least five different strategies to deal with a possible hostile encounter before Benny even has the chance to get a visual on the unidentified aircraft.

Planes scare the living crap out of Dean, have since he was 4 years old. And if it wasn’t for Sam deciding he wanted to become a Weapons System Officer (“It requires so much more than being a dumb jock behind a glorified joystick, Dean.”) he would have happily spent his life safely on the ground, becoming an airplane engineer, making flying death traps better, safer, less likely to devastate a family.

But like the hippie he is, Sam decided to face his issues head on. So, of fucking course, contrary to all expectations, he joined the Navy. Just not as a pilot, because he's gotta rebel against dad somehow. Regardless, the morning after Sam had called to say he had signed up, Dean had packed up his room at MIT, said goodbye to a teary and pissed off boyfriend, driven Baby to the nearest recruitment office, and cut off his hair along with his aspirations.

And here he is.

Here he is flying in the gray light of pre-dawn, the first rays of sun only moments away from exorcising the strange desaturated hues of dusk that he somehow associates with Purgatory. Cumulus clouds tower high and foreboding about twelve miles to the east.

“ _You see him, Benny?_ ” Sam’s voice comes statically over the radio.

“Roger. I got him. Contact, 20 left at 30 miles. Nine hundred knots closure.”

Dean smiles. He would still prefer to have his little brother with him in his Hornet, but Benny makes a damn fine WSO. Must have been all that ‘gator-tracking he did as a little boy, because damn he has good eyesight and an uncanny instinct for prey.

“Campbell, you hear that?” he asks.

“ _Roger_ ,” is all he gets for a reply.

Dickbag.

“Moose, you got him?” he asks before he can get lost in his anger.

“ _Roger, Hunter. I've got radar contact. I'll get a visual_.”

“That’s my boy.”

Dean can practically hear Sam eye-roll over the radio, so he shuts his cakehole to prevent making any further comments that Sam thinks are patronising. Sam may be his little brother, but –as Benny has found out on multiple occasions – he is not someone you mess with while on the job.

“Camp, you hook ‘m,” he says instead, unsurprisingly receiving no answer at all.

“Roger”, Benny chuckles, filling in the silence, “and we’ll clean ‘m and fry ‘m, brother.”

“Mustang. Mustang, this is Ghost Rider. Two-zero-three. I've got him inbound. Bogey heading two-seven-zero at 10 miles. Nine hundred knots closure,” Dean reports back to the Lawrence.

He briefly wonders if Bobby is standing next to the radio operator, trying to find out whether some poor son of a bitch cadet forgot to log in a visitor for today. He’s pretty sure Andy’s ears are still ringing from the last time that happened.

The reply comes immediately. “ _Ghost Rider, take Angels 10-left-three-zero._ ”

Dean sucks in his breath and rolls his jet into an inverted dive as Christian and Sam pick up altitude. The maneuver brings bile to the back of his throat, but he could do it with his eyes closed at this stage. He controls this vessel like he controls his own body.

The horizon snaps into view for a second, and the sun momentarily blinds him despite the massive shaded visors on his helmet. Judging from the grunt behind him, Benny is having the same problem. Despite this, when Dean pulls out of their dive with a confident snap of the steering column and levels out, his plane is in perfect position to get a better look at the unknown aircraft and attack at a moment’s notice. He may be perpetually scared while doing his job, but it’s his fear that makes him one of the best “dumb jocks with a glorified joystick” in the entire US Navy.

“Talk to me, Moose. Is he alone?” he asks.

“ _Roger, Hunter. Single bogey, still closing in fast._ ”

“Benny, you see a trailer?”

“Negative, Hunter. Looks like he’s a single.”

Well, then. He may as well finish this one up quickly, so he can return to the Lawrence and land.

“Camp, I'm going head-to-head with him,” he announces.

Christian is technically number one on this patrol, seeing how Dean lost his qualifications as section leader three weeks ago thanks to admiral Braeden and his bendy daughter and as much as it grates on his nerves, Dean has to pretend at least a little bit like the no-talent douchebag has some authority up here.

“ _Hold up a second, Dean-o. I know you like to rub heads together, but I don’t like this shit. Be a good little boy and hold back for a second while the professionals check it out. I’m breaking high and right to see if he’s really alone._ ”

While Dean doesn’t explicitly tell anyone on the Lawrence about his sexual preferences and everyone is careful not to ask, it is well-known that his call sign is a drunken tribute to the fact that on shore, pretty much everyone whom Dean considers hot is fair game and that gender doesn’t really play a role in that.

Douchenozzles like Gordon avoid being alone with him because of it –as fucking if - but mostly, he doesn’t get any grief, which is kind of a miracle given the military’s 1950’s views on sexuality. The USS Lawrence is a bit of a liberal bulwark in the Navy, no doubt due to Captain Singer’s command. But Campbell, he will take a cheap shot every chance he gets.

“Brother, he's coming right at us.” Benny’s tone is neutral. Dean knows that tone though. It is not Switzerland neutral. It’s an I’ll-save-my-anger-for-later-when-I-rip-his-throat-out-with-my-teeth kinda neutral. One of these days Dean’ll convince him to lend him some of that Shun knife shit and have a one-sided conversation with Campbell.

_Focus, Winchester._

“OK, buddy, what's on your mind?” Dean whispers as the enemy jet finally blinks into view. Screw Christian and his pretend command, he’s ending this now.

“Merde, there's two of them!” Benny interrupts before he can make a move and then adds almost awestruck, “I think they are LEVIs, brother.”

Dean whips his head around as two bogeys streak past them. Shit, definitely LEVIs. Sleek, black frame with sharply contrasting white wings and missiles. Classified reports make them sound like boring, regular jets in appearance. Up here, in motion, they fucking look like sharks on PCP coming straight for you. He doesn’t think anyone has actually seen them this close-up before in a combat situation. The briefing would have mentioned the shit-slipping terror they thrust on you.

“Mustang,” he barks over his fear, “this is Ghost Rider. Confirm two LEVIs. Repeat two LEVIs. What the fuck are they doing here? Over.”

“ _What's your position, son?_ ”

Crap. If Bobby’s on the radio things must be really bad.

“ _Two hundred fifty miles out_ ,” Sam responds for him.

“ _Two hundred fifty miles? You idjits clear them the Hell out!_ ”

Great. Pissed off, concerned Bobby is just awesome to have to deal with. The man has an entire ship to worry about and worries about it all the fucking time. But the Lawrence simply isn’t Dean’s priority right now.

“Camp, you've got LEVI-1. I'm coming to take LEVI-2 off your asses,” he says, before Christian can come up with a dumb-ass plan that’ll get Sammy killed. He banks right and picks up altitude, rushing back to Sam, once more hindered rather than helped by the blinding rays of dawn.

“I lost him in the sun, Dean,” Benny grinds his teeth.

“Take it easy there, Fang. You got him, Moose?”

“ _He's coming around right on our tail_ ,” Sam replies, calmer than he has a right to be. “ _He’s going for missile lock……. He’s got missile lock._ ”

“Campbell, break right!” Dean yells, as Sam says, “ _Christian, we gotta move, dude._ ”

Fuck.

Dean’s pushes into a looping, inverts and miracle of miracles draws the second LEVI’s attention from Sam’s jet to his own.

“Putain, Dean, qu’est-ce que tu fais? We have missile lock!”

It’s the first time Dean has ever heard Benny lose his cool.

“I’m leading him away, is all, Benny.”

There is a moment of silence in which all he hears is the frantic bleeping of their weapons defense system.

“Bien.”

It’s terse and pissed off, but Dean couldn’t give a good goddamn about their safety right now. He wonders vaguely if a rocket explosion would knock him out cold, or whether he’d be alive long enough to realize he’s plummeting from the sky. At least he’d finally know what _her_ last few moments had been like.

“What’s the plan brother?”

“Leadin' him away from the hen house, dude.”

It’s a practiced maneuver that Benny sarcastically calls his mother-hen move. Feign weakness by keeping his course steady, and his bogey will take the bait and Dean knows that finally his surroundings will help more than hinder him. The cumulus clouds he spotted earlier are now brightly illuminated against the red morning sky and they are dead ahead.

“Mustang, this is Ghost Rider. We have two bogeys all over us. Do I have permission to fire?”

“ _Range?”_

“Goddammit, Bobby, fuck range. Sammy is about to be blown out of the sky. Do I have permission to gank these fuckers?”

“ _Dean! What. Is. Your. Range?_ ”

And there you have it. The John-Winchester-tone-of-voice that Dean cannot disobey.

“Two hundred miles, sir.”

“ _Hold fire until 150._ ”

“Airspeed 267 and decreasing.” Benny’s voice is all professionalism now. This is Benny bringing his A-game, not just because his own safety or because it’s his job. It's about those fuckers threatening to kill the family Benny claimed for himself after he left Louisiana to sign up.

He hits the vapor of the clouds and Benny yells “NOW!”

Dean hits the breaks and the jet’s nose whips up as he almost stalls mid-air. He flips the plane into a controlled fall and now has nothing to rely on but his instruments and Benny to guide him through this grey world.

“Wait, wait for it…” Benny mutters.

They have practiced this so many times in simulators that they are basically working off muscles memory and confidence.

“Now.”

Without a word Dean pulls back and flattens her out.

“3…2…1…break left.”

They burst out of the cloud and immediately see the LEVI right in front of them. The jets may be new, but Russian evasive patterns sure as shit aren’t.

“I’m going for missile lock,” Dean says, “let’s scare the son of bitch back to the Hell hole he came out.”

 _Come on, buddy, lockup. Lockup._ He thinks hard at the Hornet as the beeping noise of her weapons guidance system going into the flat-line noise of you-are-fucked.

“I got him locked, Fangs.”

Dean’s thumb brushes over the red button at the top of the steering column, a hair’s breadth away from launching a missile when the LEVI whips hard to the right and starts to head south, clearly breaking off the engagement.

“We got ‘m, brother, he is bugging out…”

“…and going home!” Dean finishes happily. “Mustang this is Hunter. LEVI-2 is headed home. “

“ _Copy, Hunter. Be advised you are at 190 miles, bearing zero-one-zero_.”

“Copy, Mustang.”

“Merde,” Benny breathes for the second time that patrol. “Dean, look at you’re 10.”

Dean pulls hard to the left and sees LEVI-2 in perfect firing position on Sammy’s jet.

“ _Camp! He’s got missile lock on us!_ ” Sam’s voice is frantic over the radio as Christian seems to have gone into utter paralysis. “ _Get away from this guy_!”

“ _Sam_ ,” Christian croaks, “ _what the Hell. He’s engaging me. The fucker is engaging me_.”

“ _Chris, we have no time for this!”_

His brother might as well be talking to himself, Dean thinks. It is clear that Christian is no longer capable of lucid thought. He seems possessed by his fear and if the fucker doesn’t get over himself soon he is gonna get them both killed.

“ _Mustang, this is Camp. This bogey is all over me. Do I have permission to fire?_ ”

“ _Do not fire until fired upon_ ,” comes Bobby’s decisive answer.

“Bobby, what the fuck!” Dean yells.

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” Bobby’s voice snaps back immediately. “ _I am not starting an international incident because you idjits react like nervous princesses and screw the pooch. Are we clear?_ ”

“Mustang, you are breaking up. Repeat last message,” Dean says. He pushes the steering column in a rapid succession of motions and ends up right on the LEVI’s tail.

“ _Dean, don’t you dare, son_ ,” Bobby’s voice is low and practically a growl. Guilt twinges in Dean’s gut, but he ignores it.

“Mustang, this is Ghost Rider. We are in perfect firing position. Do I have permission to fire?”

“ _Dean!_ ” Bobby now bellows, “ _the son of a bitch has been hovering behind them with missile lock for the past two minutes. If he would have wanted to fire, he would done so already. Do. Not. Engage_.”

He’s right. Dean knows he is right. But knowing rationally that the dickbag in front of him won’t take out the one person on the face of this planet he would do absolutely anything for, is completely different from being able to stop the anger that surges through him that he's in a position to do so in the first place. All it takes is one nervous twitch and his baby brother…

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam cracks over the radio, “ _get this asshole off me_.”

“ _Dean, don’t you dare shoot him_ ,” Bobby warns. He can hear the desperation in his voice and for a moment all Dean hears is the man who cradled Sammy in his arms when the uncoordinated moose fell down the hatch and dislocated his elbow while playing with little Kevin Tran as a teenager.

This, he realizes, must be killing Bobby as much as it is Dean. More so, because at least Dean can do something about it. Paradoxically, it’s that realization that makes him decide to follow orders.

“What do you wanna do, brother?” Benny asks, catching his hesitation.

Dean sighs. They are in a perfect stand-off and something is going to have to give.

“Well, I can’t shoot the fucker. Might as well have a little fun.”

“Dean…what are you doing?” Benny asks warily as Dean maneuvers his jet over the LEVI.

“Engaging in foreign relations, Fangs,” Dean smirks as he snaps the throttle to the right, flips them upside down, and brings them face to face, cockpit to cockpit. Dean flips his visor up, and finds himself looking into the eyes of a man in his late thirties who has done the same. In fact, the planes are so close that Dean can read his call sign.

колдун

Dean huffs in amusement. Technically, flight crews are not supposed to bring in anything personal into the cockpit. But after a particularly long wait on an LAX runway during a training session Dean has learned to smuggle in some inflight entertainment. He feels around for the latest copy, pulls it out and smacks the July issue of Men’s Health against the canopy.

"How about this for fantasy, buddy."

“Is this your idea of fun, brother?”

Dean can hear the smile as well as the eye-roll in Benny’s voice.

Before he can put the magazine back into it spot, the man in the LEVI gives him a fake toothy smile and disengages. Mister Fitness can be proud.

“Sammy… your tail is clear. LEVI-1 has bugged out.”

“ _Took you long enough, jerk_ ,” Sam ‘s voice is thick with relief and gratitude.

“You’re welcome, bitch.”

Yeah, whoever at the Pentagon is gonna read the transcripts of this as they pour over today’s events, is gonna have a lot of fun. Dean smirks. With a LEVI encounter, a lot of people in the Pentagon are gonna be reading this. Maybe he won’t need Benny’s knife collection after all.

“See that, Campbell, it’s almost like I’m the professional here.”

Across the radio, Campbell’s breathing comes erratically. Dammit.

“Alright, Camp,” Dean says in a softer tone, “looks like we had enough fun for one day. I’m getting a little low on fuel. How about getting home, grabbing a beer, and forgetting about being dicks to each other.”

“ _It’s okay, Dean_ ,” replies Sam when Campbell doesn't, “ _we’re right behind you._ ”

“Race you home, bitch.”

“ _Lame, jerk_.”

Dean makes contact with the flight deck –Bobby no longer responding and Dean is pretty sure he is in his office preparing a roasting that will leave Dean’s ears burning and heart broken at having disappointed his surrogate father/commanding officer. It is okay, though. Sammy is safe once more and in about an hour and a half he will be in his bunk and free for the next twelve hours.

“Holy Hell, Dean. When did we become a magnet for every piece of trouble in this godforsaken place?” Benny asks as he punches in the Lawrence’s coordinates.

It’s more than a light-hearted remark. Benny is deadly cool while in a dog-fight, but afterwards his mind tends to wander towards Andrea and his unborn son. Dean wonders if the shifty son of a bitch knows how guilty it makes him feel.

“Look, Benny, I’m sorry you are stuck with me, but--,” Dean starts, defensively.

“That’s not what I meant, Dean, and you know it.”

Truth of the matter is, Dean does know. He knows Benny would never blame him and he is aware that of the two of them, Benny is the one who chose this life for himself. What he refuses to see, and what Dean cannot stop seeing, is that he had no say in ending up with an aviophobiac with a savior complex. It will get Benny killed one day, Dean is sure of it. Just as he is sure that, while it'll break his heart, he'd sacrifice Benny’s life to save Sammy’s in a heartbeat.

He drops the Hornet as low as he is allowed to and shoots across the Indian Ocean. It's nerve-wracking, but Benny loves this altitude. It reminds him of all the time he spent on the Gulf as a young kid, playing pirate. He may be willing to sacrifice Benny, but he is going to be a good friend until that time.

When the Lawrence comes into view, it mercifully saves Dean from getting lost inside his head even further.

“ _Ghost Rider, this is Tower. You are cleared for landing_.”

“Copy, Tower.”

They fly past the aircraft carrier in a wide circle, feeling out the wind and gauging the swell of the ocean. It is a calm day and the landing shouldn’t be a problem.

“ _Hunter, you are at zero-five-zero. Call the ball._ ”

“Copy, Hunter has the ball.”

Dean sets in his final descent, when Sam’s voice registers again.

“ _Camp, we are low on fuel. We have got to land this thing_.”

Shit.

“Benny, Sam’s in trouble.”

“ _Camp, we are flying on vapors, dude. Let’s do this. Camp! Come one, Camp!_ ” Dean recognizes the way Sam's voice turns slightly indignant at the end of each sentence. His tell for when he is truly worried.

“Benny, we gotta do something.”

“Not possible, brother. We’re just as low on gas as they are.”

His jet completes the glide and for a moment Dean considers landing for real. But when his wheels hit the flight deck, his hands seem to operate independently of his brain. He accelerates again, pulls back the steering column and barely escapes the grappling hook of the landing contraption.

“Putain, Dean.”

The engine roars back into life as Dean takes his jet to the sky again. His radio bursts into angry chatter, but he ignores the commands for him to turn around immediately and land, as well as the low fuel warning sign blinking on his screen to the left. He is not losing his kid brother today and that is all there is to it.

“ _Chris, we have got to land this thing_ ,” Sam’s voice keeps coming over the radio. “ _We are low on gas. Do you understand me, dude?_ ”

It’s not gonna work, that much is clear. For some reason, the engagement has broken Camp.

As he regains his visual on Sam’s jet, Bobby’s voice is back as well.

“ _Dean, you have been instructed to land. Land immediately. I am not losing two planes today!_ ”

All it does is manage to piss Dean off even more, because in that statement it’s crystal clear Bobby expects Sam to have to eject from the plane and while he has a good chance to survive that, an excellent one even given the current weather conditions, it would be Winchester luck to hit the canopy or end up tangled in his chute once he hits the water. No way. Campbell is landing that fucking plane and delivering his brother home safely.

“Any of you boys seen an aircraft carrier around here?” he quips to hide his anxiety.

“ _Dean, we have a real problem_ ,” Sam replies, “ _those LEVIs really screwed him up. I don’t think he can make it back._ ”

“No, worries, Sam. I’ll take you all the way in.” Dean fervently hopes he isn’t lying. With anyone else he would try for a gentle approach. Campbell, well, that dick will require a slightly different tactic.

“Right, Campbell. Tiny suggestion. Landing your fucking jet on a flight deck’s easier when you go to meet it. Maybe you missed that day in flight school?”

He waits a moment for the insult to sink in. For the inevitabl –

“ _Fuck you, Winchester._ ”

“Well, hello, Newman. Welcome back to the land-of-those-who-know-our-fucking-jobs.”

“ _You know, Hunter, I’ve tried to be nice_.”

“Wait are you trying to tell me that you have been an even bigger knob than you’ve been letting on?”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam interjects, “ _So not the time_.”

_Wrong, Sammy._

But Dean keeps his mouth shut. It’s up to his brother now.

“ _Chris_ ,” Sam continues, “ _how’s about we land this thing_?”

“ _Copy, Sam._ ”

Dean watches and listens as his brother talks continuously to Campbell until the jet finally drops to a lower altitude and heads for the Lawrence.

“Brother,” Benny chuckles over the radio as Dean watches the plane come to a safe stand-still below him and moves into his own descent, “You know I will never not be impressed with the way you can aggravate the living shit out of people. But saving a 30 million dollar jet doing so is taking it to a level of pure art.”

Things run smoothly after that and Benny whistles Peer Gynt all the way to their much earned showers. To the casual observer, that may seem like Benny is relaxed, but really, Dean knows he is preparing himself for their meeting with Bobby. He should apologize, but he convinces himself that it's better to wait until after. He deserves every bit of the shit storm about to hit, but he can only apologize so many times for his disobedience.

Fuck, he ignored his orders and now that Sam is safe and sound, today’s decisions start weighing on him. He guiltily ignores the slaps on the back he receives on the way to his bunk, congratulations like he has done something extraordinary, because he would have put all of them in danger for Sam without a second thought. And that scares the living shit out of him.

Because this, this life, these daily potential encounters with death, these choices he makes, that is what crazy people do and for once Dean would just like to be normal.


	2. Headspace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings:  
> * sub/dom dynamics start here  
> * Dean's self-loathing  
> * subdroppish  
> * gratuitous French cursing (Happy Birthday, Andro!!!!!)

“The Winchester boys? Solid, smart, destined for greatness. Good boys...”

                                                   …and stay away from them.”

Neither Sam nor Dean truly appreciated the full extent of growing up the sons of Lieutenant-Colonel John Winchester until they spent a few weeks at _The Home of the Bombers_. It would turn out to be a seminal school experience for Dean, what with Amanda Heckerling losing her shit in the middle of a crowded hallway just after Dean announced they were moving away and he didn’t know if they were ever going to be back at Fort Benning.

While Dean was used to walking Sam to a register’s office several times a year,whispers of Black OPS and NAVY SEAL liaisons inevitably trailing them, Truman High opened his eyes to the long-term consequences of the life they led. Sure, carrying the Winchester name carried a certain notoriety with it that meant very little bullying for Sam once the little dork decided to stand up for himself and plenty of experimentation for Dean, milking his bad boy image for all it was worth. Seeing Amanda hurt like she did, though, had come with the realization that perhaps it would be better to keep their distance.

By the time Dean turned 18 (“We’ll celebrate properly next year,” Sam had said as he handed over his present, “I’m sure dad will be home then”) that isolation had meant a solid stream of one night stands, an SAT score high enough to guarantee admission to any Ivy League school, and letters of recommendation that got him an offer of a full ride from MIT. And little to no friends or relationships. People just seemed to end up hurt around them, so it was better not to let anyone get close.

Or perhaps he’s just a bit of a dick.

Bobby Singer understands this. If there was anything approaching a constant in their youths, it was Bobby. Sometime-babysitter, sometime-confidant, full-time grouch, John Winchester’s war buddy knows Sam and Dean better than anyone else outside their small family and understands their dynamic in a way not even John ever fully grasped.

Which is exactly why Dean doesn’t understand that Bobby seems to think his current tirade is going to have any effect on him, other than make Dean feel guilty and pissed off and Bobby frustrated and surly.

“Dean, you just did an incredibly brave thing…What you should have done was land your damn plane. You don’t own that plane, the tax-payers do. Son, how would you feel if---”

“I’m sorry, _sir_ , but I wasn’t exactly concerned with taxpayers’ money. I was more concerned with my little brother about to die,” Dean interrupts.

“Oh, boohoo, princess. You know as well as I do Sam could have ejected from the plane had it been necessary. That boy is perfectly fine taking care of himself.”

They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them blinking. Bobby can shout all damn day, but there is no way Dean would do anything differently next time. If it means not getting back his qualifications as section leader for another three months or being put in hack for next shore leave then that is a small price to pay. And if his commander’s sigh is anything to go by, he knows it, too.

As he damn well should.

“Dean, it’s not that you aren’t a good pilot. You’re the best damn jock I have, but you keep pulling crap like this… son, you know your family name carries a certain expectation. If you don’t kick it in the ass every single time—”

“You think I don’t know that, Bobby? I’ve been living that forever. You have no idea what it’s like to be a Winchester, to have to take care of Sam.”

How many times is Dean going to have to show it to him until it sinks the fuck in? Sam is his responsibility and there ain’t nothing anyone else can say or do to change that, no matter how much Dean sometimes resents it.

“Dean..” Benny’s voice is soft but steely and it’s only then that he fully realizes what he’s just said and by the look on his Rio’s face he’s truly fucked up. Few things Dean does that actually piss Benny off.

Yeah, he really is a dick sometimes.

Before he can do some damage control, though, Bobby continues to speak, calm and measured, but a wall has been firmly slammed into place.

“I’ve got bigger problems than Winchester histrionics right now, boy. Or the five high-speed passes over air control towers, or bendy admirals’ daughters.”

“No,” Bobby continues,” my biggest problem is that I am supposed to send a flight crew to Fallon this month. It was going to be Camp and your brother, but I think it is clear Campbell shouldn’t be piloting a Cessna right now. So instead, I gotta do something that goes against every bit of common sense I have. I’m gonna send you two characters to fly against the best instructors the Navy has to offer. You two idjits are going to Top Gun."

_Fuck..._

"And just to make sure you don’t go AWOL before you even get to Nevada, I’m sending Sam with you. We’ll figure out a pilot for him later. Rufus still owes me. But any of you screw up, you’ll be flying cargo planes full of rubber dog shit outta Hong Kong.”

“Yes, sir!” they belt out simultaneously.

“Oh and you idjits can tell me about the LEVIs some other time," Bobby finishes. There is a hint of pride in his voice this time, which only makes Dean feel like a bigger shit. Because now that his frustration is down again and he looks at his earlier words….goddammit. Why can’t he ever react like a normal fucking human being?

“Bobby, I –“ Dean starts.

“You are dismissed, Lieutenant Winchester.”

 _Goddammit_.

The rest of the day drags on in muted tones and when Dean wakes up the following day after fewer than four hours of fitful sleep, the signature underneath his transfer orders are all he sees of the man he has called dad in the privacy of his head since he was eleven.

It’s nothing he doesn’t deserve.

*********

 

“Salvation has arrived!! Drink is our religion!!”

The Chapel Tavern is heaving and Dean is currently sipping something called a F**k Sandy and he isn’t too sure how he feels about that. Spending their last night before training in The Biggest Little City in the World was Benny’s genius brainwave, and all three of them are currently on their way to being utterly trashed. Which is why he finds himself laughing at the douchebag standing on top of the bar screaming into the microphone while pouring liquor straight into his little brother’s mouth.

“Redemption through revelry!!!!”

Damn right.

“Brother!”

With an unsteady twist, Dean turns to be confronted with Benny’s shit-eating grin, incisors gleaming red in the bar’s lights.

“Okay, I guess it's my turn, isn't it?” Dean smiles.

“Oui. The bet is 20 dollars and laundry for a week,” Benny says. “You have to have carnal knowledge, of a lady this time, on the premises.”

“On the premises?”

“Come on, brother, a bet's a bet.”

“I remember me letting your lame ass win last time despite the alleyway altercation.”

“J’ai glissé, chef,” Benny smirks.

“One day you won’t be able to French movie-quote your way out of losing, Louis. And unlike you, I don’t need any excuses.”

Right that moment, a beautiful red-head walks past their table who gives Dean the once-over and winks.

“It just doesn’t seem fair to you,” he says after he downs the remainder of his drink, “when I’ve already won before I begin.”

“The redhead?” Benny says incredulously, following Dean’s gaze to where she sits herself down next to some dude who from this distance looks like he hasn’t combed his hair in a day or two. “No way, brother.”

Dean runs his fingers through his hair, pats Benny on the shoulder, and adds a swagger to his step as he makes his way to certain victory.

“Excuse me?” he rumbles in his most seductive voice.

The woman turns around, and Dean opens his mouth to ask whether it hurt when she fell from Heaven when his eyes fall on her companion.

Up close the man is gorgeous. Possibly even better looking than the woman. He has the same otherworldly quality she has, but where she looks immaculate and aloof, her companion is slightly rumpled with an inquiring tilt of the head that is fucking adorable. Any other night, Dean would have been on that, but a bet is a bet and he is not losing.

“Can we help you?” the man says and double fuck. How is that fair? Dude has a voice that seems to have a direct line to the lower parts of his body.

Benny..... Bet...... Bet with Benny....... Right.

“I was just wondering whether the lady would like a drink?” he waltzes right over his own desire. “That is, if you would like one,…..” he lets the question dangle.

“Anna,” the woman smiles, “and yes I would.”

“Dean,” he smiles back. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a Silk & Oil,” she says smoothly. “And Emmanuel will take a Dealer’s Choice.”

Oh, yeah. He is so winning this.

“Coming right up,” he winks suggestively, emphasizing the _up_ before making his way up to the bar.

“Dean!!!”

Sam is right up on the bar, svelty blonde velcroed against him.

“Dean, this place is spectacu-lacular!”

His brother, the happy drunk.

“Dude, are you and Benny doing the bet thing?” Sam slurs.

“We are, Sammy. Like taking candy from a baby.”

“Dude, you totally need your wingman!”

Sam tries to extract himself from the clingy blonde and almost manages to topple them both off the bar.

“Sammy, I got this!” Dean yells up to where his lanky dope of a brother is somehow transforming his fall into an agile leap onto the ground.

“Okay, Dean! Just remember…..you’re my brother….and I love you!”

And Dean is engulfed in a hug.

“Dude!”

“I’m good, Dean. You go kick Benny’s ass.”

He shakes his head and turns to do just that only to find himself standing right in front of the girl’s companion. Emmanuel, and goddamn the dude needs to get out of his personal space, because.... because... Bet! His bet with Benny.

“Uhm,” he says eloquently.

The man just stares at him with disconcertingly blue eyes until he jerks his head to the left in a clear instruction for Dean to follow him. It doesn't even occur to Dean not to. When they reach the toilets the fucker even holds open the door for him. He needs to sober up for this.

Dean walks straight to the sinks and splashes some water onto his face. He’s stalling and he knows it, but if he is gonna bag Anna, he will have to come up with a damn good excuse to placate this Emmanuel figure.

He turns and once again finds the man right in front of him. How the Hell does he do that?

“So, you are trying to seduce my friend to win a bet?” Emmanuel says.

There’s no anger in his voice, but the lack of inflection is somehow more commanding than a threat would have been and all he can think to do is nod.

Dude’s impressive, Dean can acknowledge that.

Emmanuel chuckles.

“Well, then you are going about it all wrong, Dean. Anna isn’t one for gallantry.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Emmanuel says, as his voice seems to drop an octave and he steps right into Dean’s personal space, “is that you need to take charge.”

Dean swallows involuntarily, because he may be drunk, but Emmanuel's just shifted something between them and all it took was two sentences.

They lock eyes again and this time Dean’s world shifts off its axis. His stomach goes through the same swooping motion he feels when he inverts his Hornet.

What the fucking fuck?

“What do you suggest?” he manages to say with only a slight hitch in his voice. Because goddamn, if Manny is suggesting what Dean thinks he is suggesting this evening just took a turn for the interesting.

And Hell yes, Emmanuel steps in between Dean’s legs like he has every right to and presses himself against Dean, but rather than being invasive it’s like being enveloped in a comforting warmth. As the man slowly runs his hands down his arms, Dean’s heart rate shoots up and he feels control slipping away from him. This is supposed to be helping him win a bet, but for the life of him he cannot remember what the bet is. Or why the hell he would want to be anywhere else but right here.

“What I suggest is you be quiet and let me show you.”

Emmanuel locks his hands around his wrists, and is now flush against Dean, drawing himself in even further with a languid roll of his hips, grinding their cocks together. A grunt escapes Dean’s lips. ‘Cause he’ll be damned if Emmanuel isn’t pushing every single one of his buttons right now.

“Shhhh. None of that now,” Manny whispers as his mouth brush against the shell of his ear. “This lesson only lasts as long as you stay quiet and keep your hands on this counter. Understand?”

Dean almost replies with a yes, but catches himself just in time and nods instead. His left wrist is released, and those wonderful lips draw away. He remains quiet, though.

“Good boy.”

His eyes snap open, because what the fuck is that, calling him a boy? A host of confusing memories tumble through his mind and his ever-present anger flares up. But before it can take hold, he’s consumed by deep blue eyes that are shining with a wild kinda light and everything inside him goes quiet. For a second, an odd sensation of being both a participant and observer of the situation takes hold of him and he doesn’t know whether to punch the man in front of him or run away or kiss him or what the Hell he is supposed to do now. Too much, it is too much and Dean needs out.

So why the fuck isn’t he letting go of the counter? Why isn’t he telling Emmanuel to fuck off? All he can do is stare right back into his eyes, unwilling to break the spell that has taken hold of him.

The first brush of their mouths comes unhurried and unexpected. Tender and almost reverent. A soft flick of tongue slides over his lips and has Dean open up for more instantly. Fingers gently caress his jaw, move downwards and slide under his chin until Dean rests his head on them and Emmanuel’s thumb softly brushes his stubble.

Dean relaxes and closes his eyes again as Emmanuel’s other hand slides up through his hair before grabbing it and pulling back his head with a firm yank. His tongue thrusts inside his mouth, demanding and hot while the thumb that had been caressing his chin moments before makes its way down towards the base of his throat, pressure just this side of uncomfortable. Dean swallows in response and takes the moan that threatens to escape him down with it.

“Good boy,” Emmanuel whispers again, and this time, rather than angering him, the words stir something quite unfamiliar inside him, not altogether unpleasant, but not quite comfortable either. They’re familiar words, but the context is so radically different that Dean doesn’t know how to react. So, he does the only thing he can do, he feels his way through the moment and with so many sensations assailing him from all directions, from one moment to the next, Dean is pleasantly lost, floating safely in the embrace of a total stranger.

It is the dumbest shit he’s ever pulled, but everything is touch and warm and good and he wants more, more, more. He rolls his hips, but is denied the friction because for inexplicable reasons Emmanuel shifts out of reach. No, no, no. Dean wraps his arm around the man’s waist and pulls him in tight, finding the friction he wants. Electricity shoots through his blood and he realizes he is painfully, painfully hard.

The next moment he's spun around and his chest pressed against the wall of the bathroom and the world comes crashing back. Bewildered he scrambles for a hold, because goddammit he doesn’t know left from right for a moment, but Emmanuel’s palm is a steady pressure keeping him up. His breath comes out like he just ran a marathon as his brain comes back online. What the fuck just happened?

Somewhere from behind, Emmanuel’s voice is full of mirth and wonder and Dean thinks maybe he spoke out loud.

“Here endeth the lesson, Dean, that’s what just happened. If you want, you can go to Anna now, and you will win your bet, I guarantee it. If you feel like you need some more lessons, though….I’ll be in the seat right next to her.”

Sonuvabitch. _Sonuvabitch._

Dean takes a few steadying breaths and the feeling of vertigo disappears. Only to be replaced by white hot anger.

“Fuck you, you dick, you---“ He has turned around while talking but the man is gone as if he vanished into thin air.

Gone, just gone and Dean thinks maybe he imagined the whole thing. Except he knows he didn’t. It was good, right? Wasn’t it good?

It _was_ good, right up to the point where he screwed up. Manny had been so clear. Don’t let go of the counter and he couldn’t even do that. Couldn’t forgo his own pleasure for a few minutes. He’s such a dumbass. No wonder the guy ran out on him.

As Dean walks back up the stairs, he realizes the joy has been sucked out of the evening. The music is still loud and pumping, but it’s as if there is a sound barrier between him and the world. He’s on auto-pilot by the time he gets back to Benny, who is chatting away happily with Anna in an obvious attempt to sabotage Dean, but he couldn't give less of a fuck. Sam's joined them, but is still happily wrapped around the blonde from earlier.

And sure enough, Emmanuel is sitting right next to them, cocky grin on his face. Those blue fucking eyes meet his and immediately the smile disappears from them. Dean thinks maybe he curses, but everything seems far away now and he’s crawling in his own skin.

_Dean?_

The sound reaches him slowly, like it’s catching up with the sound barrier that’s been broken.

“I’m gonna head back,” he manages. Three faces look at him worried, so he adds an “I’m fine. Just tired, too much to drink” for good measure.

Without another word he drags himself through the crowd. He just needs some fresh air. He’s being an idiot. God, why can’t he ever react like a normal human being? It was a kiss and the guy left. Why the fuck would he even care? He’s done it to dozens of people himself. Maybe it’s just karma.That makes sense. He’s finally run into someone who literally takes his breath away and the world gives him the finger. It’s nothing he doesn’t des—

“Dean!”

He’s spun around and once more stares into Emmanuel’s eyes. He’s vaguely aware Sam is there as well, but somehow the man in front of him is the one whom his drunk ass focuses on.

Fuck this evening.

“Dean,” Emmanuel coaxes softly, like he’s talking to a spooked animal.

He lets out a shuddering breath and all of a sudden finds himself embraced in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Emmanuel whispers. “The way you reacted, I just assumed.”

Assumed what? That Dean would react like a grown fucking man? Get in line, buddy.

“I’m sorry,” Emmanuel whispers again. He’s rubbing small circles between Dean’s shoulder blades with one hand, while carefully holding his shoulder with the other, as if wanting to prevent anyone from unexpectedly ripping him away. It’s a gesture of caring and possession and it slowly drags Dean out of the Hell of his own thoughts.

“I know I have done nothing to deserve this, Dean, but I would like very much to make sure you get home safe.”

Scratch that earlier thought. _This_ is the dumbest shit he has ever pulled. Because as sure as Dean knows that Manny is giving him a real choice, he is just as sure he will say yes. So, he nods, and hails a cab. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Behind him there is some discussion, and he thinks he hears Sam and Benny tell Emmanuel to fuck off repeatedly, but all Dean can think to do is jump into the cab when one stops in front of him.

To his surprise Emmanuel is the one who slides into the seat next to him and wraps him into a hug that should be awkward, but that Dean sinks into immediately.

“Where’s Benny and Sam?”

“They’re in the cab behind us.”

Dean doesn’t know what kinda mojo Manny’s worked on his brother and best friend for them to allow him to be the one to accompany Dean, but he is glad for it. The drive to the hotel is subdued, but never once does Emmanuel break contact with Dean and it’s such a fucking relief he could cry.

Jesus. Nut up, Winchester.

“Stop it,” Manny says softly. “I can hear you scold yourself. If you are going to be upset with anyone, be upset with me. I’m the one who overreached. But if you let me, I will make it up to you.”

By the time they step into Dean’s hotel room, he feels wrung out and undressing seems like a horrendously difficult task. Out in the hallway, the discussion with Benny and Sam seems to have resumed.

Dean crawls into bed and stares unseeing at the wall and lets out a deep trembling sigh.

“Shhhh. I’m here.”

Emmanuel lifts the blanket, slides across the bed and Dean finds himself wrapped up in arms and legs and comfort.

"Sleep, Dean."

It's as much a command as it is soothing and to his surprise Dean's eyes almost immediately start to droop and his mind goes quiet.

It’s nothing he deserves


	3. Traces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Thanks for sticking around and welcome if you're new to the story. I hope this chapter feels like a continuation of the same voice the previous two had. Updates will be fairly irregular, I gotta be honest here, but the story is definitely back on track. As with every chapter, the trigger warnings specific to the chapter are posted below. They could be perceived as slightly spoilery, just to let you know, but be safe before anything, so if you think from the general tags you might be triggered, please read them. 
> 
> Also, I changed the general tag "minor flashback to panic attack" to "short flashback to panic attack" which is what I meant to begin with, but I realised "minor" could be perceived as a judgment on how it should be perceived and there's nothing minor about any panic attack no matter how briefly described.
> 
> trigger warnings:  
> * short flashback to a panic attack  
> * safe-wording (kinda; not during a scene; not a single trace of dub- or noncon)  
> * safe-word and consent discussion  
> * submissive kneeling  
> * subspace  
> * self-deprication
> 
> Note: I do not know a single thing about engineering. Everything I wrote is based on online research. Please let me know if I have made a mistake no engineer could live with.

“Hey, flyboy! Get your Muggle mitts off my engine!”

With a jolt Dean jerks back the hand that's been running inquisitively over the nozzle guide vanes of a stripped-down engine. The past thirty minutes of touch and sight has put his brain into a state of calm, focused suffusion he hasn’t felt since his MIT days.

The modifications on this baby are something he'd only just begun exploring when Sam enlisted and it feels like he's staring at the physical manifestation of his ideas. Which is awesome.

The storm of anger bearing down on him in the form of a wisp of a redhead? Not awesome.

With Sam off meeting his new driver -Castiel or whatever- excited like little 5-year-old, and Benny skyping with Andrea, Dean has been mercifully left with an escape from questions of the chick-flick variety. He's fine. He had a freak-out. Mystery dude helped him. Done. No need to over-analyze this shit. Much better focusing on fixing this engine.

Or that’s what he’s been thinking.

“What have you touched!? Did you tip anything out of balance?”

“Whoa, cool you jets, lady,” he says defensively, ”I got this.”

Which is apparently exactly the wrong thing to say, because her eyes flare up and her mouth draws down into a flat line of disapproval.

“Baum!” she yells, “Get yourself in here!” Her voice is soft, yet there's something downright inexorable in it as well. That quality that has Dean ask _how high, sir_.

Shit, all he wanted was a few moments of feeling like himself again. To get his bearings back after screwing the pooch so completely last night. This is the last thing he needs on his first day at Fallon, a pissed off officer of unknown rank. But if there's one thing Dean knows how to deal with it's with pissed off authority figures. Because for all the sass and lip he can give, Dean prefers those in authority to be happy with him and fuck knows he has a life-time of practice in making them so. When she draws breath to bellow for assistance again, he decides it's time to take evasive maneuvers.

“How do you make sure the sensors calculate the right airflow when you bend the vanes this far?”

She freezes, eyes rapidly shifting as if she's retracing her interaction with him so far looking for evidence of why this random dude would ask this question.

“I---I don’t know yet. That’s what I am trying to figure out.”

Dean nods and waits for her to continue. After all, this must be what it would be like to find a stranger under the hood of the Impala forcing him to admit he’s never been able to figure out why she growls the way she does. He might not know much, but he knows people and their machines.

“Who are you?” she asks after an uncomfortable pause. ”Did Dick Roman send you?”

“Who now?”

Her eyes narrow even further. “Dick Ro—never mind that. Who are you?”

“I’m Dean,” he says, as he tries his most charming grin on her. It has zero effect on her, so he quickly adds, “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

At this her face breaks out into a sunny smile and all of a sudden Dean feels the undeniable, protective urge to make sure it stays there forever.

 _Huh_.

“Dude!!! Dean Winchester?! As in _Impala Engineering_ Winches—“

They are both startled when a door is slammed open and a tall, stern-looking brunette hurls herself into the hangar and towards Dean.This must be Baum then.

“Woah, woah, woah!” he tries in vain, “Take it easy.”

"Do I look like I take orders from fancy flyboys?" She bites back, showing no signs of slowing down.

Shit. A fist-fight with Ronda Rousey's angry sister would be the perfect end to a stellar first twenty-four hours in Nevada. What the fuck is with this State?

"Uhm, a little help here with you attack dog," he barks at the redhead.

“Typical naval aviator, all talk and no balls when you’re not in your phallus with wings. And don't talk to her like that.” But she does come to a slow stop, apparently waiting on the much smaller woman.

“You’re a phallus…with…wi-“ he lamely mutters, but is cut off with a raised eye-brow.

“You okay, Red?” the brunette asks once she seems sure Dean will remain quiet.

“Yes, yes, wizard,” the other woman waves away the concern, “Dean, this is Baum. Dude, this is Dean Winchester!”

Baum gives him an unimpressed once over.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Yes! I mean, no, but yes!”

“Charlie,” Baum snaps, “I don’t know what the hell you are fangirling over now, but are we good here?”

Charlie’s smile is now sunny and bright, “Totally. Dude, I just met my Yoda!”

“I'm your what now?” Dean frowns.

“My Yoda, dude! You're the Yoda to my Luke. The Qi-Gon to my Obiwan." The redhead is practically bouncing up and down.

Okay he may have just diffused the situation here, but some things Dean can't let slide.

“Uhm, back up there, Mara Jade. There’s two things I know for sure. One: no references to the Menace. Two: I ain’t nobody’s Yoda. I’m more of a Solo type.”

“Oh brother,” Baum groans as Charlie positively beams at him. “Red, you are a freaking nerd-magnet. I’m out of here. And so should you, Solo,” she smirks, “the noob briefing is a ten-minute walk from here and starts in five.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Don’t worry, Dean. Just drop my name,” Charlie beams.

“Which is?”

“Hermoine Midd—“

“Charlie,” Baum admonishes.

Eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Charlene Bradbury. But everyone calls me Charlie.”

“Alright, Charlie. You’re gonna have to explain the Star Wars shit to me later. Right now I gotta not get BCDed by a bunch of SoBs.”

“No! Don't get booted out now. We have so much to talk about. It's like we're best friends already!! I just… geez, I'm...you have a total right to ask. Come and see me tomorrow, man. You’re are pretty much booked the rest if today with security and check-in and such, but tomorrow you noobs aren't scheduled to fly till thirteenhunderd anyway.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

"Dude, I got skills you never dreamed of. Now get going!”

Dean is already halfway out the door when he hears a “Smell ya later, bitch!’ trail him, "and don't forget to mention my name!"

As Dean runs full speed across the base and bursts through the door of the Van Voorhis building, he's still not quite sure what just happened, but he’s pretty sure he just made a friend, whether he wants to or not.

"Dean!"

Sam's at the end of the hallway waving at him frantically. When he reaches his brother he instantly recognises the expression the Gigantor is wearing.

"I know I'm late, Sammy, but there's no need to go all scold's bridal on me."

"Dean --"

"Or bitchface."

"Dammit, Dean, will you shut up a second," Sam snaps. The two back rows in the already-filled briefing room turn around to see what the commotion is. "There's something you need to know. I met --"

"Well, look at that. The Hardy Boys finally found us. Took you long enough. If you gentlemen would care to take a seat?"

The smug grin and smarm are exacrly the way Dean remembers him.  _Fuck_. Fergus Crowley. No wonder Sam looked like Dean had just infected his laptop with a porn virus. Last time they saw this asshat he'd proven nothing but cheap infomercial host of rumors and innuendo, sending out false intel about  _her_ and what had happened _._

"Sit," Crowley hisses.

When neither one of them responds, Crowley sighs, "I had forgotten you two are at best functioning morons, but can we please stow the Disney princess crap until after this briefing."

Before he can say something stupid like  _you're functioning... morons_ (once a day is enough, thank you very much) Sam is dragging him inside.

"Dude, forget Crowley, I met my driver and--"

"Forget Crowley?!" he scowls, "Excuse the fuck me, Sam, but last time I checked he sent us on a wild goose-chase that left two people dead."

"That's not what I mean, Dean. It's just that I met my driver and--"

Dean spots Benny and wrenches his arm loose. "I'll talk to you after the briefing, Sam." He practically throws himself into the seat Benny saved him. Fuck Sam and his priorities. There are times he truly doesn't understand him.

"Calm down, brother, Sam didn't know."

Didn't know yet another one of Dean's failures just bitchslapped him in the face? But before he can snark back the lights are switched off and Crowley's voice has his jaws clenched tightly.

“Gentlemen, and lady," the last part is said towards the back of the room.

_Good for her._

"During the Korean War our kill ratio in the air was twelve to one. For the mathematically challenged among you, that means we shot down twelve planes for every one of ours. We were like demons to these people.”

Oh for fuck's sake, the man likes the sound of his own voice. 

“In Vietnam, however, that ratio dropped to three to one. We went from close combat skills gods to being nothing but a bunch of pansies that relied on missiles. So, on March 3, 1969 the United States Navy established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. This elite school.

“Its purpose was and is to teach the lost art of aerial combat maneuvering. The gritty, unpleasant, dirty, no-holds-barred, Judgment Day kind of flying.“

Crowley finally stops his pacing in front of Dean and looks him straight in the eye.

“In other words, dog-fighting.”

Dean looks right back, despite the unshakable feeling of wrong that pours of this guy. It’s like he’s challenging Dean but despite their history it doesn't feel antagonistic. He breathes in deeply and tries to calm down. 

"Now, if any of you morons still harbour any Tom Cruise aspirations, you will have to keep it to homoerotic beach volleyball. Top Gun is now part of the marine corps, which means no karaoke cocktail hours nor any Jerry Lee Lewis bar sessions. As far as you're concerned I am your Commander in Chief and you will obey my every whim. "

Despite himself,  Dean snorts. 

“Blinds, please,” Crowley snaps as he continues his steady pace among the ranks.

The venetians snap up and the sun flashes into Dean’s eyes. He hadn’t even been aware of their comforting shadow till now. It leaves him feeling strangely exposed. 

“Our commanding officer was the very first man to obliterate the competition. You won't find a finer or more ruthless fighter pilot anywhere. Commander Cain?”

Crowley’s voice rises a little bit as he introduces their C.O. in a way that betrays awe and maybe a little bit of fear. The calculating side of Dean stores that information away, as he turns in his seat to look at the newly introduced man, but his eyes never quite make it to the figure in dress whites that is striding across the room in his peripheral vision. Instead, they catch on the person sitting next to his little brother. 

It’s a funny thing, panic. It’s been almost eight years, more than 90 months, since he stood in that hallway at Truman High and watched Amanda Heckerling walk away. He still recalls that feeling of selfishly drowning in misery. That feeling of a physical ache to be touched, for something to fill up the rapidly-growing emptiness settling in his chest that left his blood racing and his lungs on fire. It had been like the world tilting as the undeniable reality of loneliness found missile lock on his heart and fired. In moments of honesty he knows that every time he picks up a girl in a bar he's trying to fill that void; it’s a few hours of false potential, of vain pretense that his panic attack at Truman High had never happened. 

That moment was nothing compared to the sense of dissonance he feels now. It’s like the images his brain is processing have broken through the speed barrier, and the implications connected to them have yet to catch up.

_Red!! Red! Red!!_

It booms in his brain, roars at him ferociously as his thoughts finally catch up with him. Looking at the way Emmanuel’s face freezes, he thinks for one horrible moment he is saying the word out loud.

Commander Cain has launched into some sort of analogy, (“Without bees, mankind will cease to exist.”) but Dean barely notices it. _Off all the gin joints in the world,_ his brain quips hysterically, immediately following it up with a Technicolor, Dolby Surround Sound flash of blue eyes gazing softly into his soul while a desperate, needy groan rips itself from Dean’s throat.

How the flying fuck is he here? How—

"Lieutenant Winchester. You think your name is going to be on that list?”

“Yes, sir?” he snaps, not quite in his own mind and not quite sure what he's saying yes to.

“Well, let’s see if you truly live up to your reputation, son,” Cain says.

The commander looks up to Crowley and smirks. 

"Found mine, your Majesty."

 Found his what?

"So, have I, pops," Crowley smirks, as he lays his hand on Emmanuel's shoulder. "My single best chance to get over the rainbow and defeat Winchester over there. Lieutenant Castiel Novak himself. "

Somehow Dean makes it through the rest of the briefing. He's vaguely aware that at some point Benny moved in such a way that he now functions as a barrier between him and Emm-- Castiel, but it's about the only thing he registers. 

At some point he know he comes face to face with the man, and judging by the way Sam ignores him afterwards it didn't go well, but what the fuck is Dean to do. 

There's long periods of time he simply doesn't recall later when he thinks back on the rest of the day. Whenever the world registers it's always accompanied by the need to find Castiel and explain why Dean's been a total dick to him twice now. Somewhere along the line he finds out where the man's staying, but other than that he drifts until he decides to quit being a jerk and he finds himself standing in front of a door with the label _Novak_  on it. Someone's drawn an angel in blue ink next to it.

If this were any other situation, Dean is pretty sure the narrator in his head would be trying to convince him that his feet carried him to this door without him realizing. Destiny guiding him or some such bullshit. Truth is, Dean hardly ever does anything significant without first carefully choosing to do so. He may not always (read mostly) have a plan in place for what he does after the decision is made, but winging it and improvising is kinda his strength.

So, while the decision to come here was deliberate, now that he is standing in front of Castiel’s lodgings, he hasn’t a clue what he’s actually going to say to the man.

What he does know is that he’s both confused and pissed. Goddamn douchebag had him spilling his guts last night and hadn’t even bothered to give him his real name in return.

_Trust me, Dean. All you have to say is ‘red’ and I will let you go._

And like a fucking asshat….

He knocks three times.

Fact remains the man is going to be responsible for Sam’s well-being for the next 8 weeks, and maybe beyond that, seeing how he's rotating out of the Blue Angels. The Blue fucking Angels. Fuck his life. They're going to need clear rules on how to be cool-headed professionals around each other and not have a repeat of this afternoon’s crapfest.

_Who's fault was that, hmmm?_

There’s a soft rustling, followed by a deep, “Please enter.”

Dean shakes his head. What kind of person doesn’t lock his own door? He turns the doorknob and light bursts into his vision, blinding him after the darkness.

“Hello, Dean.”

For a moment, that deep gravelly voice is all he hears and he involuntarily lets out a sigh as a feeling of safety teases his skin, soft as feathers. He blinks rapidly until the sparks clear from his vision and he sees Castiel walk towards him, an air of purpose and determination surrounding him.

“We need to talk,” he continues.

"You think? Mr. High and Mighty, Blue Angel, piece of shit liar," he bites. Well, there goes professional and cool-headed.

"I never lied to you, Dean."

"Really, _Emmanuel?"_

Fucking asshole.

“Dean, technically I’m still a member of the most elite and well-known squadron in the world. A squadron that is the biggest pr-tool the navy has. I was hardly going to use my real name in a bar in Reno trying to pick up a one-night stand. A _male_ one-night stand.”

Which is a fair point, Dean has to concede, but that doesn't mean crap for the situation they're currently in.

“You trusted me last night, Dean. Nothing has changed. Nothing about me has changed except my name. I understand it may not feel that way, but there's no reason not to trust me now.”

“I trusted _Manny,_ Cas,” Dean bites back, and he has the satisfaction to see the blue-eyed bastard cringe. Or at least, that is how he chooses to interpret the slight narrowing of his eyes. “I know as much about you as I do about Taylor Swift. In fact, I know more about her.”

"Dean, I --"

"No. No, Cas. I get that you didn't tell me your real name in the fucking men's room and I'll admit that something happened between us last night, fine. But when we got in that cab......And maybe, maybe, because of tons of alcohol, I got into a weird place where apparently, I...I...Then.... then you should have....you shouldn't have....."

God, he can't even finish his damn sentences, because Castiel is standing right in front of him all calm and collected like he was last night. 

God, Dean wants him.

"Shouldn't have helped you stop making decisions for a little bit? Shouldn't have stopped you carrying the entire weight of world on your own? It may have been more prudent to tell you my name then, Dean. But it would have pushed you right back into your own head when you desperately needed to get out of it."

"Fuck you, buddy. You don't know shit about me or my life. Forcing me to stay still and manipulating me into a chick-flick session afterwards. Just because you know how to push some of my buttons does not make you an expert in me or what I need."

At those words, Castiel goes white and his eyes widen.

"I forced you?" his voice is very small.

Shit. Why can't he ever react like normal human being? Why'd he have to say shit like that. Cas hadn't forced him. Not in the least. If anything he wants him even more now.

But Dean's embarrassed enough as it is without the man reading him like an open book. 'Cause he's right. They didn't fuck last night, didn't even kiss after the men's room. They just held each other for Christ's sake. Okay, maybe PG-13 held each other, but dammit, it had been awesome. Not to have to do anything. Just to be, with no need to check if he was pleasing the other, because Cas had said he already was and that had been enough to make Dean shudder at every touch. Enough to shine a small light into the darkness of his mind and follow it back out.

Dean hunches his shoulders, drops his eyes to the floor, and shakes his head, unable to speak for the guilt of having made Cas small with doubt.

"Dean, may I touch your face?"

He nods as he carefully studies the carpet.

"Are you sure? I don't want to if you feel you owe me. I only want to if you want me to."

He nods again.

Cas's voice has dropped an octave when he says, "Please tell me, Dean."

His breathing picks up, but he manages a quiet, "You can touch my face, Cas."

He's expecting his head to be cupped and held up, but instead there's only the soft brush of fingers along his temples. He leans in towards Cas despite himself. He thinks he's kinda really pretty sure he loves those gentle hands.

"We have a lot to talk about, Dean. But right now, I am going to ask you to do something. Your choice whether you do it, though. I am going to sit back on the couch and when I do, I want you to come sit in between my legs facing me. No, blowjobs, no nothing. I just want you kneel down before me. I want you to kneel down and submit your control to me, until I give it back to you."

How the fuck is Dean supposed to react to that shit? He wants to keep the physical contact with Cas, but this shit, this is just bizarre. It's like the weird fucking counter thing all over again. He should run away fast. He should tell this freak to stay away from him and his brother. 

"The fuck, Cas?"

Cas's thumb softly strokes his temple on the left side of his face, his right hand dropping to his should, as if to steady him.

"Will you look at me?"

Dean looks up and sinks into the blue of Cas's eyes just like last night. Dammit.

"I am asking you to do this," Cas says quietly, "because I think it's something that will help calm you down. Because I think it'll be something you'll enjoy. Because it may help build back trust a bit. You don't have to. If you want to return to your bunk, you can."

"I...I...don't, but," he doesn't know how to finish that sentence either. How do you tell someone that you think they're a freak, but please keep touching me. If you acknowledge that, you acknowledge you're a freak's bitch. And...and...

"Dean, this is not a if-you-walk-out-that-door-don't-ever-return situation. You can say no and we can sit on the couch, or remain standing here. Whatever you want. But for a second, try to picture it. You, on your knees. Looking up to me. Submitting to me."

Well, he'll be goddamned if Cas's voice hasn't become liquid sex. But he can't. He fucking can't do this. What if the dude's messing with him and all he'll do is laugh if Dean does do it. Because if he's honest with himself, that mental image doesn't make him feel like a freak's bitch at all. But he can't, he can't...

Right?

"Dean?"

His name is spoken softly, barely audible in fact, but slams into him with g-force ferocity, throwing him of balance, stomach fluttering. Slowly but steadily he finds himself pushing Cas backwards to the couch, because he needs to know if he does have control. If he can stop it if chooses to. At least he can have that. He doesn't have to kneel to see if Cas is full of bullshit. 

Cas's legs hit the couch and he calmly sits down, relaxed, perfectly content having Dean tower over him. They stay like that seemingly forever, Dean searching the other man's face for any signs of malice or dishonesty, senses focused on any tell that this is all a big hoax.

All he gets is expectation and patience. 

And then he sinks to his knees. Just like that. Because that's what he chooses to do. It's strange, to follow an order because he wants to and not because he has to. He blinks rapidly when heat radiates from all sides, preternaturally almost, and part of him cannot believe he's here, kneeling between Cas's legs, cock mere inches from his mouth, knowing that's not the end game here. Not tonight. That it's something much scarier they're playing at. And holy shit it's like his brain has stopped functioning altogether.

What the Hell is he doing?

He nearly jumps up when a hand brushes through his hair, leaving a trail of electric sparks burning into his scalp. It feels so good, a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan escapes him. There's touch and heat and Cas. When a second hand caresses his cheek, only minimal pressure is needed to nudge him against Cas's leg. Before he can stop himself, Dean wraps his arms around it and exhales.

"Good boy."

The voice is smoke and carries validation and approval and Dean clutches to it as much as he does to Cas himself.

Time passes with ease, a natural progression of being rather than that race against an ever-present clock at two minutes to midnight. And then it disappears altogether.

It feels so good to be here. So, so good and Dean feels like he has melted against, no, become part of Cas. They're breathing in sync. They're sharing this moment as one and goddammit, he should stop this, but Dean lazily rubs his cheek against the inside of Cas's leg instead, mind blissfully empty.

He almost misses the hitch in Cas's breathing. 

Almost. But at this stage he feels so attuned to the man Dean wouldn't be surprised if he could hear Cas's thoughts. Cas, who is being so good to him. He floats closer to man who could pull any of Dean's strings and unravel him here and now. Floats closer until he is nuzzling against his cock through a soft cotton pair of track pants. His eyes droop, his mouth closes around the shaft with a hint of pressure.

Next thing he knows hands have finally, gently cupped his face and soft lips brush against his cheek, tracing up until flighty kisses land reverently on his closed eyes.

"I need you to come back to me, my beautiful boy," Cas whispers.

Dean must have made a sound, because there's a soft chuckle and then he's being kissed thoroughly. The warmth of Cas's mouth on his own slowly lifts his head out of suspended time and then he's kissing back with all his might. Tongues sliding languidly but hands clutching tightly as though he's being physically pulled up towards the sky and letting go would mean falling forever. Part of him wants to stay in the haze desperately, so he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to decide, but Cas softly bites his lip and that pulls him up even further.

Fuck, he's being pulled apart.

"You've been so good, Dean. God...that you would give me this, so soon after I broke your trust," Cas says, a little bit louder now, steadying, calming, grounding. No, no, he wants to go back to oblivion. "So, I cannot break it again by taking you beyond what you need now, just because I want it. And believe me, Dean Winchester, I want it."  

"Stop saying my name," he mutters, because that safe space is fading fast and with every "Dean" he's crawling back further into reality.

Strong arms slide underneath his own and he's hoisted up with ease and manhandled to sit across Cas's lap. Okay, maybe feeling that, being picked up like he weighs nothing is pretty awesome to experience. His head is gently pushed against Cas's chest and while it doesn't feel like the same body-melt from just a few moments before, it's very good nonetheless.

He runs his fingers through the hair at the base of Cas's neck and occasionally presses his lips against skin. 

"Drink this, Dean. Come on."

Cool water runs down his throat and shakes of the lingering sense of unreality. And he's exhausted.

"Cas?"

He doesn't even hear a reply. When he wakes up 6 hours later, wrapped up tightly in solid arms, it's with a smile on his face and a buzz in his blood. Careful not to wake Cas, he disentangles himself and slips out of bed. He should return to his bunk before they're caught here, but he'll see Cas later today, so it's okay. Softly, he runs his fingers through the messy black hair, his thoughts calmed and focused at the touch and sight.

Four hours later Benny smashes their clock radio against the wall in a futile attempt to stop Dean singing Asia at the top of his lungs.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
